An Outpouring

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
It is as the title suggests. I suppose it's somewhat of an open letter, but I don't intend for her to read it.

Submitted: August 13, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 13, 2012




Oh, if only life were a wish that could be transformed on a whim. Then I’d still have you.

We’d be in Manchester, ambling towards the designer stores, just south of the high street. We’d be arm in arm, with busied struts, mimicking the faceless suits that pass and who speak with obnoxious self-importance on their Bluetooth handsets as they abscond from the financial quarter to fuck a cheap woman in a cheap hotel room in their cheap, loveless lives. I’d mock them arrogantly and you’d smile and we’d be richer than all for having each other. Then we’d peer into the boutique of Vivienne Westwood’s, through the crystal shop front window and dare each other enter. Neither of us would, of course. The surly security staff enough of a deterrent on this occasion, but I mentally promise that next time I will, so long as you gift me your melodic laugh. We’d uncourageously resign to the Starbucks that looks onto St. Anne’s Square and ensure one another that we’ll go to the Christmas Market they hold there in the winter. I’d order a latte, and you a hot chocolate. You’d use every drink topping available on the counter; nutmeg, chocolate, cinnamon, and the sweet, aromatic dust would make you sneeze. You’d tell me it must be your hayfever. I’d smile.

Then we’d be in London, at Goldsmiths College together, like we always planned, and it’d be our city again, just like when you first took me there. Do you remember? I was in a city of eight million people, and yet only one mattered. We’d spend entire days on The South Bank, having photographs with the Portuguese men who disguise themselves as Hollywood protagonists. You’d amorously eye Captain Jack Sparrow, as ever, whilst I cuddled Shrek, the padding of the costume not masking his indignity and perspiration. Next, we would each buy a foot-long hotdog from the van that sits outside the ITV television studios, and we’d gaze upwards, trying to glimpse a sight of Holly Willoughby or Phillip Schofield, the morning show presenters. Then back eastwards, towards Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, where we’d stand in the stalls and watch Marlowe’s tragic Faustus, as you clasp my hand and ask me to translate the Jacobean rhetoric. You’d rely on me, and I on you.

We’d grow old in each other’s arms, without dwindling love, and we’d always have the strength to pick each other up, should one of us have fallen, as we ever have done. We’d have children, grandchildren, and our love would multiply to others, and prosper within ourselves. And when the time was upon us, we’d go into the dark, hand in hand, to face the eternal emptiness together.

But life isn’t a wish that can be manipulated. I’m alone now. Space and time selfishly continue, whilst I remain stopped and unanimated, because what I was progressing for, and towards, has left and won’t return.

They always fucking glorify love, don’t they? Why? It’s the only phenomena of the human condition where the unavoidable outcome is incomprehensible hurt. Please, now you no longer love me, never love again. Not for my sake, the hope to rekindle this has died, I know, but because, if you love again, you may one day suffer as I do now. Every cell of my body cries as they try to part from one another, in seeking you. Memories, that have always been the source of great joy, now fester and rot in the forefront of my mind to remind me of what is gone. My favourite songs, my favourite movies all the best aspects of my life have left because I shared them with you, and it’s too painful to go back to them. And that poem you wrote me, if I read it now my soul would flee back to its origins, for it’d know there’s nothing left here for it. “The world has turned to mighty stranger”.

You used to be afraid of my bathroom at night, because of a horror film you had watched, and so every evening, before bed, you used to ask me if I would sit with you whilst you brushed your teeth. I often rejected you, irritable that you would inconvenience me with immature, imagined fears. I called you childish. I take it back. I was a fucking fool, wrapped up in myself and unaware of how important you are. You had to brush your teeth alone. You were scared, and it was my fault. I would give every minute of a life without you just to sit with you whilst you brushed your teeth again. When you needed me. And you loved me.

Oh fuck, Rosie, what am I going to do?

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